


the faces we know

by orphan_account



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Costume Parties & Masquerades, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-14
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-03-31 06:35:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13969413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “You miss him,” Regis finally says, casual. Noct’s shoulders tense again, but he doesn’t deny it. “You miss him terribly.”“We were kids, Dad,” Noct says with a huff. “I hardly know him—knew him, whatever. It’s been years.”The memory of running around the ballroom, between skirts and tailcoats, giggling and stealing food from the tables, a warm hand in his own, is still fresh and clear in his mind. He remembers the cacophony of chatter and laughter, the sweet aromas of the pastries, the pungent colognes, the music that flowed like water above it all. The way that hand squeezed his, tight and unwilling to let go, and the green eyes that shone in the soft light from the ballroom as they hid on the balcony.Noctis has never been one for masquerades, but they'd been more bearable with the presence of his friend--one with green eyes and a soft, accented voice that he hasn't seen in years.





	the faces we know

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nihlyria](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nihlyria/gifts).



> written for @makou-fluff for the @ignoctgiftexchange

“It is unbecoming of the prince to brood in the corner when he should be mingling among his people.”

Noct turns his sullen glaring from the guests to his dad, who only chuckles. He sips primly from his flute of champagne, eyes twinkling, and Noct resents the fact that the King doesn’t have to wear a mask like the rest of the attendees. His own mask is itchy and uncomfortably sticking to his sweating face.

“I’m not the prince tonight,” he says, petulant. He looks back out at the crowd. “That’s the whole point, right?”

“In a sense,” Regis acquiesces, but continues, “but it would make your people most happy.”

A sigh escapes him, and Noct’s shoulders slump. “Yeah,” he agrees, resignation heavy in his voice. “Yeah, I know.”

Regis is quietly contemplative for a moment, and Noct braces himself for what’s coming.

“You miss him,” Regis finally says, casual. Noct’s shoulders tense again, but he doesn’t deny it. “You miss him terribly.”

“We were kids, Dad,” Noct says with a huff. He squints behind his mask as he looks at the crowd, like that will make any kind of difference when everyone has masks obscuring their faces. “I hardly know him—knew him, whatever. It’s been years.”

The memory of running around the ballroom, between skirts and tailcoats, giggling and stealing food from the tables, a warm hand in his own, is still fresh and clear in his mind. He remembers the cacophony of chatter and laughter, the sweet aromas of the pastries, the pungent colognes, the music that flowed like water above it all. The way that hand squeezed his, tight and unwilling to let go, and the green eyes that shone in the soft light from the ballroom as they hid on the balcony.

A soft, accented voice telling him they needed to behave themselves, and Noct saying they could behave themselves on the balcony, away from the festivities, because balls were boring and he’d much rather eat sweets outside with his new friend.

They hadn’t worn masks then, being children, but he couldn’t remember what his friend looked like. The only unclear detail about his memory—all he had was the image of green eyes and the sound of an accented voice.

Regis continues to sip at his champagne, and Noct continues to watch their guests. It’s quiet between them, despite the chatter and laughter and music filling the air around them. Skirts twirl and tailcoats flap, and Noct sees kids dart between them, chasing each other. He envies them their carefree shrieks of laughter. And lack of masks.

He’s going to burn his as soon as he gets the chance. Cor can fucking deal with it.

He can’t take the pitying silence anymore, so he pushes off the wall and grabs a flute of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter, downing it in three large gulps. He grimaces and sets it on the edge of the buffet table beside him.

“Guess I’m gonna go mingle,” he announces, and gives a salute to his dad as he walks off. He can feel his dad’s eyes on him, and he disappears into the crowd to make it go away.

He pushes through twirling couples, trying to avoid stepping on anyone’s toes. Now that he’s here, he feels the urge to be among people again dwindle away, turning to claustrophobia in the press of bodies, and he wants nothing more than to escape to the balcony on the opposite side of the room. He needs air to breathe and a cool breeze against his heated, sweaty face. He needs—

His shoulder bumps a body, and when he turns to apologize his feet catch on a trailing skirt, and he feels his balance thrown off. He trips, arms out to take the brunt of impact when he hits the ground, but another set of arms catches him in a bracing hold, almost like a dip, and Noct looks up at the masked face of his savior.

“Careful,” a warm voice says, smooth as honey and rich as molasses, with a soft, familiar accent. “That would have been an awful tumble.”

“Yeah,” he says, breathless, and he’s not sure if it’s the adrenaline or that voice making his heart beat at double tempo. “Yeah, thanks. That would have been—really embarrassing. Thanks.”

His savior helps him stand again, a polite if amused smile on his lips. Noct knows he’s staring, but—something is just _so familiar_ about this man. His mask is simple, black mesh twisted into tightly woven knots formed into abstract patterns that kind of resemble the crest of House Fleuret if Noct tilts his head just right and squints through one eye.

The man takes a step back when he’s sure Noct is balanced on his feet, though he keeps one of Noct’s hands in his own. He bows, the simple, cordial one any gentleman might use, and not the deeper, more respectful one used for royalty, and Noct feels both relief and a curious sense of disappointment that this man doesn’t recognize him.

“I must apologize,” he says, lips hovering a breath away from Noct’s fingers. “I’m afraid this was my fault.”

Noct blinks, and sucks in a breath to come back to himself. “No, no! This was—this one’s on me, I was in a rush and wasn’t paying any attention to where I was going! I am so sorry!”

The smile that curls those lips catches Noct’s eye and he’s staring again, dammit. “May I ask what has such a charming young man in such a hurry?”

“I—I was—” Taking a deep breath, Noct closes his eyes to center himself. Embarrassment fills him and he has to look away. “I just got a little claustrophobic,” he admits, a self-deprecating smile on his own face. “It’s a little stuffy in here. Well. A lot stuffy. I needed air.”

Concern pulls those lips into a line. He lets their hands— _he’s still holding Noct’s hand_ —fall and steps forward, gently steering Noct back. “If I may, then,” he says, and Noct is too dumbstruck to question it as he’s led over to the balcony that he’d been heading for before the commotion.

The cool air of the night is a balm on Noct’s heated skin as he rips his mask off, rules and decorum be damned. He ignores the sharp intake of breath behind him and inhales deeply, closing his eyes as he tilts his head up and lets the breeze play with his hair.

“Gods, I hate these things,” he says, and whether he means the masks specifically or masquerades in general, he’s not sure. He takes one final disgusted look at his own mask before tossing it into the gardens below. He’ll have to retrieve it later, but for now he revels in the feel of the breeze and runs his hands over his face and up into his hair.

“Never were one for festivities of this sort, were you,” his companion says, and he sounds somewhere between awe and warm familiarity.

Noct looks back at him slowly, biting his lip. He can’t quite make eye contact though—his stomach turns in unpleasant knots at the inevitable return to distant, polite acknowledgement everyone falls back on when they realize they’re in the presence of the Crown Prince of Lucis. His brow furrows at the words, though, and he finally does meet the eyes of his companion, who has removed his own mask.

He’s as attractive as his voice, with fair skin and soft hair falling over his eyes—his _green eyes,_ warm and shining in the light pouring from the ballroom. He would know those eyes anywhere.

Noct’s breath hitches, eyes wide. “ _Ignis?”_ he breathes, and Ignis smiles.

“It’s good to see you, Noct,” Ignis says. He sets his mask aside on the balustrade and catches Noct easily when he throws himself at Ignis. His arms wrap around Noct securely, and Noct buries his face in Ignis’s neck, above the collar of his dress shirt.

“I missed you,” Noct says, and his voice is so soft he’s not sure how Ignis hears him, but Ignis’s hold tightens even further, and he whispers back, “And I, you,” and Noct knows he did.

They stand there for a moment that feels like an eternity and not long enough, Noct clinging to Ignis, Ignis holding him tight, running a hand through his hair. Something settles in Noct, and he breathes easier, more content than he has been in a while.

When the finally pull apart, Noct hops up onto the balustrade, and Ignis moves to stand between his legs. Their hands are clasped, and Noct can’t keep the grin from his face. Ignis mirrors it, and Noct leans forward to press their heads together. It just feels _right._

“Just like then,” he says, and Ignis hums in agreement. “The only thing missing is food,” he adds cheekily, and Ignis snorts.

“You always did know how to ruin a moment,” he laments dramatically, and Noct bumps their heads together pointedly in chastisement. Ignis pulls back to press a kiss to his head before settling against him again. “Quit it.”

Noct just keeps smiling, and they fall into quiet conversation. Where they’ve been, what they’ve been up to, why they haven’t seen each other in _years_ because Ignis had duties and studies that kept him home in Tenebrae and unable to attend the masquerade where he met his dearest friend.

“I was worried you’d forgotten me, moved on,” he admits, and Noct takes his face in his hands, looking into his eyes.

“There is no power in this world,” he says slowly, “that could make me forget you, Ignis. My pathetically pining ass would have remembered you until I died and even beyond then.” He smiles again, leaning to bump their noses together. “But I’m glad it didn’t come to that.”

“That’s a very serious declaration, Noctis,” Ignis says, nearly breathless. “You hardly know me, when you think about it.”

“And yet here we are,” Noct muses, tilting his head contemplatively. He traces the space beneath Ignis’s eyes with a fingertip—if memory serves, Ignis usually has glasses, and he wonders how bad Ignis’s sight is without them. He continues, “And I love you no less because of it. I’m not a big fan of destiny, but I’d be willing to give it credit where it’s due.”

Ignis reaches up to clasp his hand, presses it against his cheek and leans into it. “Destiny, hm?”

Noct shrugs. “Destiny, fate, teenage hormones—” he smirks, “—take your pick.”

Ignis laughs, full and carefree, and it sends a shiver through Noct’s core. He presses a kiss to Noct’s palm against his face and then leans forward to kiss Noct, soft and chaste.

“Definitely the hormones,” Noct breathes when he pulls away, eyes still closed and savoring the way his lips tingle. Ignis kisses him again, and again, and again, less and less chaste but still just as gentle.

“I like the sound of fate,” Ignis whispers against his mouth, Noct’s hands in his hair, and Noct doesn’t care what it is anymore, as long as he gets to keep kissing Ignis.

But fate does have a nice ring to it.

**Author's Note:**

> i love these soft boys who are so very in love
> 
>  
> 
> come scream about them with me on [tumblr!](http://duscaenorange.tumblr.com)


End file.
